


to it's reckoning

by borzbois



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, Slice of Life, The Calling (Dragon Age), Warden Cousland (Dragon Age), commission, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borzbois/pseuds/borzbois
Summary: "Hawke?""Hmm?""What will you do when the Calling takes me?"





	to it's reckoning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Szajnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Szajnie/gifts).



> a commission i did for Szajnie for her wonderful Warden Cousland! thank you for the commission and I hope you enjoy!

They're in the Free Marches again, which Elspeth wouldn't mind so much if the weather wasn't so poor. The air is so thick around them it seems to seep in under her armor, which idly clacks along as they trudge through the dense mud. She feels sweat drip down the back of her neck, pool beneath her armor and make her uncomfortable slick all the places she can't reach to relieve herself. She lets out a huff, eyebrows furrowing and she has to pull particularly hard to get her boots out of the thick trudge of sludge beneath her. 

Hawke laughs at her, though the sweat pours from him as well, clad in just as much (if not even heavier) thick plating. For a mage, he really does wear a ridiculous amount of armor. "C'mon, we're almost there. You can take a bath in a minute." 

Elspeth doesn't blame the looks they get as they enter the inn. The pair of them are quite a sight; they look positively haggard, covered knee deep in mud, armor scuffed and clothing torn, and covered in blood spatter and stains in various states of drying. Not to mention the layer of dirt and simply the _smell_ from being on the road for weeks without so much as a dip in a creek. 

Usually, this aspect of her life is far from her mind. She's used to adventuring with other people who have also not bathed in several days, if not weeks, who are used to the smell and gore of a warrior's lifestyle. But for some reason, right now, she is incredibly insecure of it all, acting far from the graceful respect that someone like the Warden Commander should command. She feels small, and just wants to sneak away from the prying eyes for once.

Right now, she's just Elspeth. She's tired and filthy and just wants some rest. 

"A room, please," she mutters out to the innkeeper, a stern-looking woman with her hair pulled back by a greasy looking scarf. 

The inn is clamorous and keeps her far too on edge, but the food is full of fat and after weeks of eating nothing unseasoned rabbit and chewing herbs, she'll take it. When they finally trudge up the steps to their room for the night, their bellies are full and she is more than ready to clean off the weeks' worth of grime and sleep for, ideally, the next twelve hours. 

They slough off their armor without much fanfare, taking care to make sure they don't clatter to the ground at the very least, but they don't quite mind where they end up. They have long grown used to the soreness of their armor, rough ridges of callouses along their shoulders and arms where the metal rubs against their skin. There are new welts left in their skin, raw and stinging now that they have a chance to notice it. It doesn't bother them much, it only makes them that much more excited to sink into a hot bath and scrub all the grime off of them. 

They take turns rinsing each other off first, to get the bulk of the filth off of them. It's intimate, something that Elsie didn't realize she would enjoy so much when they began to travel together. Hawke's gentle hands on her are more soothing than she realizes at first, letting out a low, contented hum and leaning into his touch. He presses chaste kisses down her neck, and she smiles. 

They sink together into the hot bath, her back pressed against his firm chest. Neither of them can hold back the satisfied groan as the water covers their skin, and Elsie lets out a sigh as she leans back entirely against Hawke. He kisses her hair at the crown of her head, arms wrapping around her. His hands move up and down her arms again, brushing past her breasts and dipping lower and lower. 

"Hawke," she says, with a tone of warning. 

"Yes?" he answers, amused, and she doesn't have to see his face to know there's a shit-eating grin on it. 

"What are you doing?" Elsie asks, voice a calm and careful mask of nonchalance, though she can't help the hint of demure that sneaks its way in. 

"Nothing," he practically sings, though his hand continues to snake lower. 

She's exhausted, her limbs sore and aching, muscles slowly relaxing in the hot steam of the water. But Hawke knows how to push her buttons all too well, knows just where to touch and prod to fire her up. 

Well, to be quite honest, she's been full of several kinds of ache since the last horde of Darkspawn they had come across. Elsie isn't quite sure when it happened, but she finds a fire building up inside of her battle after battle. Lately, she finds herself having to resist the powerful urge to push him up against a tree even amongst the corpses and gore. 

She can't help it, she's a lovesick fool and something about watching Hawke in the throes of battle is mesmerizing. His smug grin and sweat dripping down his brow, muscles pulling and shifting as he throws spell after spell. When Hawke casts, his voice gains the same gravelly timbre as when he's rooted deep inside her. It makes her knees weak just to hear it, even when face with the decomposing smell of Darkspawn slobber. 

When his hand dips to rub at her core, sensitive from exhaustion and how unfulfilled she's been as of late (through no fault of their own) she groans and settles deeper into his chest. His fingers are deft, they know her body well and just how to make that heat build inside of her. He whispers in her ear all the while, sweet nothings paired with teasing quips. He has his other hand firm on her hip, to pull her flush to the erection slowly growing behind her, and to keep her from bucking into his hand too much. 

His fingers circle around her clit, rough with callouses. Both of their bodies are littered with scars, some aged and a silvery white etched into their skin, some more recent, pink with the heat seeping into them and some newer still, puckered and angry. 

Elspeth can't help but sink into his touch, into _him_. She's so tired, and she knows that if nothing else this will settle her to sleep like nothing else. It will metabolize any residual endorphins rushing through her, and she'll sleep deep and satisfied tonight. 

She comes with a shudder around him, clutching at the sides of the tub as she lets out quiet gasps of his name. Her hips roll into him, as the waves of her orgasm ebb and fade, and she's left feeling boneless in his arms. 

She's idly aware of him finishing washing her up, tenderly lathering soap in her hair and rinsing it out. He kisses along her warm skin all the while, the only sounds between them the ambient sounds of the water and the muted cacophony in the tavern below them. 

She must have fallen asleep in the tub, because she blinks and she's in bed, curled up on Hawke's chest. His chest rises and falls heavily beneath her, the gentle tufts of dark hair soft beneath her fingers. She reaches up to brush his hair out of his face, where the moonlight shines through the cracks in the shutters. He stirs, lashes fluttering to reveal his bright eyes beneath them. 

_His lashes are stupidly long_ , Elspeth thinks. _Stupidly handsome_. 

Hawke doesn't say anything. He just smiles at her, presses a kiss to the crown of her head and tucks her back onto his chest. 

"Hawke?" 

"Hmm?" 

"What will you do when the Calling takes me?" 

It's deathly quiet for a moment, but Elspeth can hear everything. The crickets that chirp outside, the blood thrumming through her ears, the creaking of the wood around them, how hard Hawke is thinking. He wants to find the words she wants to hear, he wants to say the brave thing. He's always been that kind of a man. 

But they're growing older. They are not quite as spry as they used to be, as brave in the face of their own mortality. Dying for something is no longer something they do out of foolish, bullheaded passion — but out of a sense of grim duty. If they don't, someone else will. They know that the Calling will claim her one day, the only question is if it will be sooner or later. 

"I want to tell you that I will live despite it all, because I know that's what you want to hear," Hawke starts. "I want to tell you that I will follow you to the end of the world, including to death itself, because that's what I want to do." 

"I sense a 'but' coming." 

"But...I don't know anymore, Elsie. I don't know what I'll do when the time comes." 

She settles into him, letting the sounds around her fade into a quiet hum. His chest is warm beneath her hands, the fine hairs smoothing underneath her fingers as she plays at them. 

"That's okay," she says, kissing the scruff of his chin. "Thank you for being honest." 

"I love you, Elsie," Hawke whispers. 

"I love you, too." 


End file.
